Marissa Lattanza, with her pencil skirt, tailored blouse, and high heels, most female mortals felt like slobs.
“A glass of water, Captain?” Madame Lattanza asked.
“Thank you, yes.”
Natalia listened to footfalls receding. Nice to be able to afford this large a space. A carabiniere’s salary was not much, but even she could afford some fresh flowers once in a while.
Marissa returned with two black glasses and yellow coasters, which she put down on the glass top of the coffee table. Natalia drank and carefully placed her glass on the coaster. She took out a notebook. “According to my partner, Sergeant Loriano, you said your husband was home last Thursday, the night Teresa Steiner was killed, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t go out?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“We have a witness who places him on Via dei Tribunali after eleven P.M .”
“They must be lying.”
“Are you sure, Signora Lattanza? This could be important. A young woman is dead.”
“I know. Yes, it’s terrible,” she conceded. “But people die. This is Naples, after all.”
“Did you know your husband was having relations with Teresa Steiner? Sleeping with her? That he was serious about her?”
“I seriously doubt that. It’s an occupational hazard, working at the University. All those young girls. They don’t mean anything to him.”
“He took her on holiday to Procida. We have it from several sources that he was very taken with her.”
She didn’t say anything as she smoothed her perfect hair.
“Signora Lattanza.”
“Ruttola. Signora Ruttola. I kept my own name.”
An opening, Natalia thought. “That’s commendable, that you kept your own name. You have your own profession, I understand.”
Marissa Ruttola adjusted one of her diamond earrings. “Yes. I’m an architect, as I’m sure you already know. If that’s all, I have a meeting with a client in half an hour.”
“Thanks for your time.” Natalia slipped her notebook into her bag. “Beautiful flowers,” she said, getting up.
“Yes, they are,” Marissa Ruttola said. “We have a different kind every week. Marco—my husband—chooses them. They are always a beautiful surprise.”
“Signora Ruttola, I feel I must tell you. I was a student of your husband’s years ago. He made a play for me and I refused. He got me kicked out of the University.”
For a moment, Signora Ruttola didn’t say anything. Then: “Shouldn’t you disqualify yourself from investigating him?”
“I have. At least from that part of the investigation.”
Ruttola threw back her hair. “Okay. Enough polite talk. My husband was obsessed with that girl. There were always young girls, you can imagine, but this was different. The week before Teresa Steiner was killed, Marco told me he wanted to leave us and live with her. I wanted to kill him then, and I probably could have, except for the children. I found Teresa Steiner’s phone number. I called her and arranged lunch with her.”
“You met?”
“Yes. She was a cool one. Surprisingly sophisticated. Wearing a Prada outfit I had found the receipt for among my husband’s credit card charges.” Signora Ruttola waved away a thought and went on. “It was ironic. She said Marco wanted to leave me and go with her. In fact, she had broken up with him. She told me he was more of an experiment.”
“An experiment?”
“Yes. She said he had told her I didn’t mind his having an affair. She apologized. How could I hate her? She told me about her mother’s cancer, and about Gambini. She was too open. She said she didn’t like taking from the shrines, but she hated the Church as much as the mob. If the people thought their prayers were being heard, then it was immaterial where the money went. All that mattered was their belief.” Signora Ruttola gestured at a lone photograph in a gray frame. “She reminded me of my daughter. These young women live life as if it were an outfit, something to try on but not
“A glass of water, Captain?” Madame Lattanza asked.
“Thank you, yes.”
Natalia listened to footfalls receding. Nice to be able to afford this large a space. A carabiniere’s salary was not much, but even she could afford some fresh flowers once in a while.
Marissa returned with two black glasses and yellow coasters, which she put down on the glass top of the coffee table. Natalia drank and carefully placed her glass on the coaster. She took out a notebook. “According to my partner, Sergeant Loriano, you said your husband was home last Thursday, the night Teresa Steiner was killed, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t go out?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“We have a witness who places him on Via dei Tribunali after eleven P.M .”
“They must be lying.”
“Are you sure, Signora Lattanza? This could be important. A young woman is dead.”
“I know. Yes, it’s terrible,” she conceded. “But people die. This is Naples, after all.”
“Did you know your husband was having relations with Teresa Steiner? Sleeping with her? That he was serious about her?”
“I seriously doubt that. It’s an occupational hazard, working at the University. All those young girls. They don’t mean anything to him.”
“He took her on holiday to Procida. We have it from several sources that he was very taken with her.”
She didn’t say anything as she smoothed her perfect hair.
“Signora Lattanza.”
“Ruttola. Signora Ruttola. I kept my own name.”
An opening, Natalia thought. “That’s commendable, that you kept your own name. You have your own profession, I understand.”
Marissa Ruttola adjusted one of her diamond earrings. “Yes. I’m an architect, as I’m sure you already know. If that’s all, I have a meeting with a client in half an hour.”
“Thanks for your time.” Natalia slipped her notebook into her bag. “Beautiful flowers,” she said, getting up.
“Yes, they are,” Marissa Ruttola said. “We have a different kind every week. Marco—my husband—chooses them. They are always a beautiful surprise.”
“Signora Ruttola, I feel I must tell you. I was a student of your husband’s years ago. He made a play for me and I refused. He got me kicked out of the University.”
For a moment, Signora Ruttola didn’t say anything. Then: “Shouldn’t you disqualify yourself from investigating him?”
“I have. At least from that part of the investigation.”
Ruttola threw back her hair. “Okay. Enough polite talk. My husband was obsessed with that girl. There were always young girls, you can imagine, but this was different. The week before Teresa Steiner was killed, Marco told me he wanted to leave us and live with her. I wanted to kill him then, and I probably could have, except for the children. I found Teresa Steiner’s phone number. I called her and arranged lunch with her.”
“You met?”
“Yes. She was a cool one. Surprisingly sophisticated. Wearing a Prada outfit I had found the receipt for among my husband’s credit card charges.” Signora Ruttola waved away a thought and went on. “It was ironic. She said Marco wanted to leave me and go with her. In fact, she had broken up with him. She told me he was more of an experiment.”
“An experiment?”
“Yes. She said he had told her I didn’t mind his having an affair. She apologized. How could I hate her? She told me about her mother’s cancer, and about Gambini. She was too open. She said she didn’t like taking from the shrines, but she hated the Church as much as the mob. If the people thought their prayers were being heard, then it was immaterial where the money went. All that mattered was their belief.” Signora Ruttola gestured at a lone photograph in a gray frame. “She reminded me of my daughter. These young women live life as if it were an outfit, something to try on but not
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